Jo lay still. Listening, waiting.

The surface beneath her left side was softer than floor or ground. Her head rested on a pillow that smelled of laundry detergent. Her shoulders ached. Her wrists were secured behind her back, she thought with flexi-cuffs or zip-strips, her hands palms out.

She pried open one eye to confirm her surroundings, clamped it shut again, and waited for the wave of dizziness to pass. Her head didn't hurt, so it wasn't a concussion. Had they injected her with something, or . . . No, she remembered something covering her mouth and nose, remembered going limp so they wouldn't know she was holding her breath. But she must have taken enough in to knock her out— she could only hope it wasn't something that would hurt the baby.

They'd better hope.

She opened an eye again and scanned as much of the room as she could without moving her head. It was a small room with an empty desk, a chair, and the bed she was lying on. The walls were a pretty shade of blue, which didn't make her feel any better.

But they'd left her alone, which did.

Awkwardly, she sat up, putting her feet on the carpet. She didn't see any obvious cameras or bugs. That didn't mean there weren't any, but she had other things to worry about. Like trying to reach her panic button.

And since she couldn't stick her elbow in her ear . . .

Jo looked down. She hadn't started to show much yet, but she could already feel a firm band around her center of gravity, an area that wanted to be treated gently. Do not bend fold, spindle, or. . .

She sat on her hands, and worked her arms under her thighs. Her back gave a warning twinge and she realized she was hunching over her belly. Straightening her spine and bending from her hips, she fell back on the bed and extended her arms as far as they could go, drawing her legs free in one motion.

Jo took a few deep breaths and rubbed her stomach with the sides of her hands. "Still with me?" she whispered. Everything felt okay, except for her shoulders.

She examined her restraints. Two linked zip-strips, the kind you could get at Home Depot. Good. Cuffs would have given her more room for her legs, but now that she was hands front, this was much better than she'd hoped.

She lifted her hands and caught the long piece of one strip in her teeth. She tugged until the locking end was between her wrists, then did the same for the other strip. It rubbed her skin a little—her efforts had tightened the strips. She pulled them even tighter.

Spencer had told her once that the main reason people couldn't break ordinary zip-strips is that they thought they couldn't. Once the strips were where you wanted them, all it took was applied force and focus.

Jo focused.

She raised her arms and brought them down, yanking her wrists apart and her elbows back until her abused shoulder muscles screamed.

The right cuff snapped.

She stood, ignoring her stinging wrist, grabbed the chair, and wedged it under the doorknob. Then she put a finger to her ear, ready to call in the cavalry.

Her earbud was gone.

She took a deep breath and let it out, not sure whether she was going to burst into tears or punch the wall. Neither would be helpful. Time to think.

The door rattled.

Jo went to the window. Painted shut. And if she broke it, she'd still have to jump two floors or be a sitting duck on the roof. There was a forced air grate by her foot, but not even Parker could have crawled through that.

The door rattled again. A male voice ordered her to open up.

Jo's eyes narrowed. The hell.

Spencer would tell her to be passive for the baby's sake, find out more, play along, wait for her moment.

But what if this was her moment?

Something hit the door hard.

Jo rubbed her stomach. Maybe a compromise was in order.

She went to the tiny closet, which was the next thing to empty. Spencer probably knew how to kill someone with a plastic coat hanger, but she didn't have the time to figure it out. The crossbar was a hollow piece of textured plastic—a whiffle-ball bat would have been more useful.

The door opened a few inches and slammed back. If the chair shattered, she'd grab a leg, but meanwhile she opened the desk drawers. She didn't bother to hope for a letter opener, but the little stapler wasn't going to do her much good . . .

Bingo.

Jo straightened as the chair legs scudded a few inches back, bulging the carpet. She moved to the bed and sat on the edge.

She waited for her moment.

And unbent the paperclip.

This is short, but the next one will be longer. This story is turning out to be more Eliot's than Jo's—at least for now!

Thanks to everyone who read the first two chapters and let me know you liked them by commenting and/or alerting!

And thanks also to those of you who went back and read (or re-read) "If it's Worth Saving Me" first—that's a lot of work just to understand the what's up with all the paperclips.

So . . . might I ask for your comments on this chapter, too?